


Leave

by bakers_impala221



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, Attempted Suicide, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Non-Canon Relationship, Sherlock - Freeform, Suicide, The Empty Hearse, The Reichenbach Fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 03:15:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14155443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakers_impala221/pseuds/bakers_impala221
Summary: Sherlock stood on the roof of St Bart's for a second time. He looked out over London, one final glance at the city he loved. This time though, this time, there was no back up plan and he didn't want one.(-Anotherwellkeptsecret, on Tumblr)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cheekycheekbones (Cheeycheekbones)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheeycheekbones/gifts).



> Based on the post (short story and fanart) by Anotherwellkeptsecret on Tumblr  
> Dedicated to Cheekycheekbones (you should understand by the next chapter, I hope)

  He looked around him. Through blurry, glassy eyes he once again saw the city he loved most. His eyes stung in the cold air blowing harshly in his face and assaulting his hair, which flew around furiously in response, whacking his face and ears, and occasionally sticking to the water on his cheeks.

  Sherlock looked down. The dark grey pavement stretched out far below him. His heart beat raced as he thought of the last time he’d been here. The moment everything had gone wrong. The moment of betrayal.

  He leaned back slightly and closed his eyes, barely noticing the wind or his hair as they hit his face over and over again. In the brown light he saw against his closed eyelids, colours began to form and words rung through his mind, drowning out the howling of the wind.

_Okay, look up I’m on the rooftop._

_No, stay exactly where you are. Don’t move._

_This phone call_ _–_ _it’s, er ... it’s my note._ _That’s_ _what people do, don't they_ _–_ _leave a note?_

_Goodbye, John_.

 

…

 

  Two years. Two years of waiting. Of infiltration and torture. Nothing would have gotten him through it if it weren’t for John Watson. The sheer _need_ to get back to him, to find him waiting in 221B with a cup of tea and a smile, made all the pain, all the waiting, absolutely worth it.

  Otherwise, Sherlock supposed he wouldn’t have tried so hard to make it out alive.

 

  He’d understood that maybe John wouldn’t exactly be sitting cosily at Baker Street with a cup of tea and a smile by the time he’d return. He’d realised that just _perhaps_ he had gotten on with something. Maybe had a few girlfriends or boyfriends or partners of any sort, just to continue with his dull, boring life, or to occupy his time.

  He thought of picking up a few payphones. To ring the number he’d had engrained in his memory since 2010, just to hear his voice again, and to tell him that it had all been a lie, to keep waiting, because it wasn’t too much longer now. But he couldn’t.

  He’d known the odds of making it out alive weren’t too high, and that every time a section had been taken down, the security levels would raise and so the odds of making the next case would lower further.

  So the thought of telling John he was alive before he was safe, was cruel. At least if John thought he was dead already, he wouldn’t have to relive that pain all over again if he really did die during this job. So every time he saw a payphone he would walk up to it, step inside the small, clear box and hold the phone in his hand, occasionally to his ear, imagining that he could do it; remembering the sweet voice he’d be able to conjure on the other end. But every time he did, he would remember the look on John’s face. He’d see the dead look in his eyes and hear the mumbled, disbelieving ‘god, no,’ and he’d put the phone down and walk away, wiping away the annoying tears from his eyes and walking back to the cheap hotel he was staying at nearby.

 

  Some nights got worse than others. He would hear the scream issued from his friend’s mouth as he’d fallen to his apparent death. Then he’d wake up suddenly, panting for breath and scrambling away from his duvet cover to escape their confining grip around his legs and waste, heaving in long inhales to catch his breath.

 

  Every night he would check John’s blog. Every day he would wait for something new, some new update to give him insight on how he was going. But he never wrote anything. The only thing that kept him aware of his friend's status was Mycroft’s infrequent updates; one word, no context, no details, just: _Alive_.

  So instead he would open the previous entries and reread them over and over again every single night, ignoring the tears burning the corner of his eyes as he turned off the light to sleep.

 

  Sherlock lost his laptop in early February, almost exactly seven months since he’d left London. He never asked Mycroft for a replacement, but he’d half-expected one anyway. It never came, though. And with only his cheap mobile that did nothing besides text, call and take tiny, terrible quality photos, he didn’t ever get the chance to check the blog after that.

 

…

 

  When he’d finally gotten back to London and Mycroft had told him that John had moved out, he’d known nothing was going to be the same. _He_ _’_ _s gotten on with his life_. The words Sherlock had been avoiding thinking about since the moment they’d reached his ears.

  _Gotten on with his life_. What did that mean?

  Yes, he had anticipated a potential date to crash, especially the moment he’d heard where he’d be that night, but he’d expected them to break up as soon as John realised he was still alive.

  It was only when he’d walked in, his confidence suddenly receding as anxiety filled his chest, that he first realised that maybe John wouldn’t want him here. Maybe he really _had_ gotten on with his life. Didn’t want anything more to do with him.

  And when he saw the way he was fiddling with his hands, nervously looking around without really seeing, clearly anticipating what was about to come, and then the way he’d reached into his pocket, pulling out a small box and opening it to inspect it, Sherlock finally understood. He shouldn’t be here.

  So when he first made eye contact with him, and watched as he shuddered, then stood up shakily to look into his eyes, Sherlock’s mind went blank in horror as his mouth automatically completed his last thought.

  ‘Short version: not dead.’

 

…

 

  Two venues, a blood nose and a broken heart later, Sherlock stood outside a cheap restaurant, watching as his best friend and his girlfriend left him all alone in the cold, his words still ringing out in the darkness of the night, filling the void in his chest with hopeless despair.

 

  He’d gotten back to Baker Street, enduring the scream from Mrs. Hudson with a painfully extended hug, before making his way back upstairs into the flat he’d used to call home. He was met with nothing but cold, darkness and silence. He sighed softly before walking into his bedroom with his old laptop clutched to his chest, settling on his bed before opening it to the website he’d been waiting to read for months.

  He was met with a surprisingly large number of new blog entries. Each of them talking either about how John was reminiscing or how he was moving on.

_I won't feel sad about it. Not any more. Because they were good times. We did good and we had fun. And that's what I'm going to remember. My best friend, and he'd kill me for saying that's what he was, is dead. Sherlock Holmes is dead._

_But, by God, he'll never be forgotten._

  By the end of the night his eyes were so sore from crying that he’d had to close them against the painful sting of the cold air. Within a few minutes his laptop had run out of battery and shut down automatically, leaving the room in darkness, and Sherlock had fallen asleep, John’s words still whispered in his mind.

  _I still believe in him._

Well, not anymore.

 

…

 

  He reopened his eyes to the vast expanse of London stretched out around him. Glancing back at the ground, he remembered again what John had said to him the night before. He could see the hate burning in his eyes, the severity in his voice.

  ‘Leave. And don’t ever come back.’

 

  He took another step forward. He was better off this way. Gone forever. He realised that now.

  His phone lay to his right, discarded on the ground, his coat -his armour- lying next to it. With nothing to protect him or break his fall; with John not there to catch him, it would be over. John would be happy. With Mary. With a family.

  He was fulfilling his best friend’s last demand for him. No note needed to explain; there was no one left to care or read it, the only person who mattered would understand.

  With one last inhale, he stretched out his arms, leaning his body forward and allowing gravity to take control for the rest of the way.

 

…

 

Suddenly it stopped, and for a second he thought that it was over. But then he registered the other sensations: the wind was still blowing against his face and the thin shirt covering his arms and torso, he could still feel the cold burn into his skin. But most importantly, the strange warmth and pressure around his waist, pulling him against the force of gravity, and backwards onto the roof.

  When he was stable, he heard a familiar voice from behind him, grounding him more than the arms wrapped around him.

  ‘Stay.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was no reason for a fail safe, not anymore. He reached up and touched his eye, a smarting reminder of why. Sherlock had anticipated the punch. John was a man of action after all. What Sherlock had not predicted was what John said next.  
> "Leave. You made me watch you die. You watched me grieve and didn't care enough to tell me you were alive. You are dead to me."  
> And he had meant it. There was so much anger and hate in John's voice and face. Sherlock could live in a world where John mourned him or even a one where John didn't believe in him. But he couldn't live in one where John hated him.  
> Sherlock stepped up onto the ledge. He closed his eyes as he felt the wind whipping around him. One last breath and |  
> The arms came out of nowhere, pulling him off the ledge and flush against another, shorter body. Sherlock's eyes shot open as he felt John burying his forehead into his back. He felt, rather than heard, John's shuddering sobs. Then, a whisper, a promise of hope, that held none of the hate and anger that had been there earlier.  
> "Stay."
> 
> \-- Anotherwellkeptsecret


	2. Chapter 2

  Then they were both on the rooftop, far from the danger of the edge, panting slightly as they stared into each other’s eyes. Sherlock was the first to break and lower his gaze, looking down at his feet in regret, as he felt himself cry once again.

  John looked conflicted for a second before speaking, his voice breaking, ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Me too.’

  Sherlock expected for John to walk back to the roof exit, then wait for Sherlock to follow behind. But instead, for the countless time in the last few days, he found himself in shock as his friend pressed against him, his arms wrapped around his waist, holding him near, and burying his face in his shoulder, whispering again, ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Sherlock said automatically in reply,

  ‘It’s not.’

  Sherlock wrapped his arms around him in return. ‘I missed you.’

  John laughed half humourlessly, ‘Yeah.’

 

  They stood there for a long time, Sherlock never growing bored or unhappy at the cold that still stung his back. But he found himself half disappointed and half relieved when John pulled away and gestured to his coat on the floor behind him, and he moved to put it on, picking up his phone and holding it in his hand, looking down and staring at it for a moment before turning back to his friend, standing awkwardly in the centre of the rooftop.

  He walked over to him, and John looked up, biting his lip hesitantly before he spoke.

  ‘Listen, Sherlock-’

  ‘I know.’

  John looked startled, then shook his head. ‘No, listen.’

  Taking a deep breath, he continued. ‘I know what you said the night we met, how you’re married to your work and how you probably don’t have any interest in anyone. And I know how you feel about Irene Adler-’

  ‘-For god sake John, I didn’t text her ba-’

  John held a hand up to stop him, giving him a look he couldn’t quiet decipher. He swallowed thickly before continuing.

  ‘I know what you said about how you feel about Irene Adler, but-’

  ‘I’m gay, John.’

  For a moment everything stopped, it seemed like even the wind was holding its breath and all the sounds of the traffic faded away, then John’s head snapped up in shock.

  Before he could say anything though, Sherlock spoke again, ‘I think I did make it _quite_ clear that day we met, actually…’ he stopped at the look in his friend’s face.

  They stared at each other for a long time, the rest of the world completely falling away insignificantly. Sherlock’s heart beat increased and his hands began to shake very slightly his left still enclosed around his phone.

  John’s mouth opened.

  ‘I love you.’

  Then there was silence again.

  ‘I- I know that just because you’re gay, it doesn’t mean you feel anything the same way, and I know that it’s really unlikely that you ever will, but I have known for a long time, and seeing you _die_ in front of my eyes tore my world down, so I promised myself that if you ever came back -because I always believed in you being real- I would tell you because I can’t watch you die again without you knowing, and-’

  ‘I’ve been in love with you since the year we met…’

  John stared at him in awe.

  ‘I-I first realised at the pool, when for a moment I’d thought you were Moriarty; when I thought you’d been a lie. Then when we agreed to die together, and I knew. I knew I couldn’t live without you,’ he continued. ‘…I was in love.’

  Then silence fell _again_ and Sherlock didn’t know what to do, still overwhelmed by the realisation that what he’d felt was reciprocated.

  Then, to Sherlock’s surprise _again_ , John began to laugh.

  Sherlock frowned, yet the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing, it’s just… you really never texted her back, did you?’

  Sherlock smiled, ‘Well, once. But it was to prove to you that I didn’t have feelings for her. -You seemed to think my ignoring her made her special to me.’

  Then he was doubled over in hysterics. ‘After all this time…’

  Sherlock laughed and waited for his friend -maybe?- to calm down and meet his gaze. Then he did and they smiled at each other, John grinning at him almost goofily before Sherlock crossed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around him, holding him close before pulling back slightly and raising his hand to John’s face to wipe away the tears. Happy tears.

  So human.

  Sherlock bit his lip, ‘Um… about Mary…’

  ‘She knows.’

  Seeing the confused frown on his face, John elaborated, ‘I… I told her. Before I came.’

  _Oh,_ Sherlock mouthed.

  John lifted his hand to cup Sherlock’s cheek, and he smiled.

  ‘Alright?’ he asked softly.

  Sherlock nodded.

  Then John pulled down his face and their lips met for the briefest moment, and John smiled.

  ‘I love you,’ Sherlock said.

  John smirked.

  ‘No shit, Sherlock.’

  Sherlock attempt to glare, but his smile and rosy cheeks ruined the effect and John giggled.

  ‘Fuck off, Watson.’

  ‘Sorry? What was that you’d like to do?’ John asked, grinning his adorable, goofy smile that made Sherlock’s heart melt in response.

  But before he could give his reply, John pulled him back down and their lips met again and Sherlock’s stomach fluttered, and he realised something for the first time in over two years as he smiled at the man in front of him.

  He was happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry. Fluff isn't what I really write, and so it didn't turn out great.  
> Anyway, Happy Easter!

**Author's Note:**

> Follow/DM me on Instagram: @Johnlock_in_baker_st  
> https://storysta.com/p/i_is_johnlocked/2063530498


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